Shortly afterwards events occurred compared to which the vicissitudes of Mr. Povey’s heart were of no more account than a shower of rain in April.  And fate gave no warning of them; it rather indicated a complete absence of events.  When the customary advice circular arrived from Birkinshaws, the name of ’our Mr. Gerald Scales’ was replaced on it by another and an unfamiliar name.  Mrs. Baines, seeing the circular by accident, experienced a sense of relief, mingled with the professional disappointment of a diplomatist who has elaborately provided for contingencies which have failed to happen.  She had sent Sophia away for nothing; and no doubt her maternal affection had exaggerated a molehill into a mountain.  Really, when she reflected on the past, she could not recall a single fact that would justify her theory of an attachment secretly budding between Sophia and the young man Scales!  Not a single little fact!  All she could bring forward was that Sophia had twice encountered Scales in the street.

She felt a curious interest in the fate of Scales, for whom in her own mind she had long prophesied evil, and when Birkinshaws’ representative came she took care to be in the shop; her intention was to converse with him, and ascertain as much as was ascertainable, after Mr. Povey had transacted business.  For this purpose, at a suitable moment, she traversed the shop to Mr. Povey’s side, and in so doing she had a fleeting view of King Street, and in King Street of a familiar vehicle.  She stopped, and seemed to catch the distant sound of knocking.  Abandoning the traveller, she hurried towards the parlour, in the passage she assuredly did hear knocking, angry and impatient knocking, the knocking of someone who thinks he has knocked too long.

“Of course Maggie is at the top of the house!” she muttered sarcastically.

She unchained, unbolted, and unlocked the side-door.

“At last!” It was Aunt Harriet’s voice, exacerbated.  “What!  You, sister?  You’re soon up.  What a blessing!”

The two majestic and imposing creatures met on the mat, craning forward so that their lips might meet above their terrific bosoms.

“What’s the matter?” Mrs. Baines asked, fearfully.

“Well, I do declare!” said Mrs. Maddack.  “And I’ve driven specially over to ask you!”

“Where’s Sophia?” demanded Mrs. Baines.

“You don’t mean to say she’s not come, sister?” Mrs. Maddack sank down on to the sofa.

“Come?” Mrs. Baines repeated.  “Of course she’s not come!  What do you mean, sister?”

“The very moment she got Constance’s letter yesterday, saying you were ill in bed and she’d better come over to help in the shop, she started.  I got Bratt’s dog-cart for her.”

Mrs. Baines in her turn also sank down on to the sofa.

“I’ve not been ill,” she said.  “And Constance hasn’t written for a week!  Only yesterday I was telling her—­”

“Sister—­it can’t be!  Sophia had letters from Constance every morning.  At least she said they were from Constance.  I told her to be sure and write me how you were last night, and she promised faithfully she would.  And it was because I got nothing by this morning’s post that I decided to come over myself, to see if it was anything serious.”